In which I sit on a dirt mound somewhere in Brooklyn with my ears pricked, waiting for New York Times head restaurant critic Frank Bruni, who I imagine to be a Venetian count in a huge ruffled collar, to dole out stars from the inside breast pocket of his brocaded chamber robe.
This blog is predicated on the suggestion that every Wednesday, in the Times Dining Out section, Frank lays a huge faberge egg of hilarity.

About Me

I am fiscally irresponsible, which means I have weak bones and a dorsal fin. And a penchant for dining out, even though I am, in the words of many rich people, a "poor people". I make a different face when speaking each of the foreign languages in which I am shittily proficient.

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Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Holy Shit. I can't tell whether my life just got soooo much better or soooo much worse. But I'll tell you this much, when I sit down at my black baby grand of a laptop, crack my knuckles, and prepare to hammer something out, I know that reliably, on the other side of town, retardo-Bach is scribbling out a score for me, Wednesday or not.

6 Comments:

Plainsman said...

So, Telepan. I feel this week's Bruni product offers a nice exercise for your skills, somewhat like the middle stages of a Bruce Lee flick in which the protagonist must face a succession of increasingly formidable kung fu masters.

Or like a good workout, where you feel the burn, but aren't on the verge of throwing up from overexertion.

Still, this is a recognizably doofy restaurant review. Entranced by Eggs.

OMG HE WENT TO HOOTERS! Well at least that's what I first thought when I read it. Then it was one of the least sexual Bruni pieces I have ever read. Apparently it takes more than tits and ass to get the Count's juices flowing.